Getting ready for Family Night happened the same way in the Quinn household every year – Mrs. Quinn departed dinner halfway through to get changed, touching Nate's head gently (maybe to make up for the week of being away? He didn't know), and Mr. Quinn started rattling off business issues. Nate listened and offered sarcastic comments that his dad, for some innate, wonderful reason, always considered.

For example: “Accounting is screwing up the numbers.”

“Maybe you should set them on fire, then. Teach them a lesson.”

“That seems like a lot of paperwork for HR to fill out. I don't have the time for it.”

The lack of seriousness in it was almost charming, endearing. Nate recognized that lightness, that privilege, and wondered, at times, if his other classmates got that right like he did.

When Mr. Quinn finally abandoned his papers, his undivided attention shifted onto Nate and became Nate's. He took no calls, did not look at his pager. The two Quinn men picked at their meals as Nate, shoving garlic bread into his mouth, talked about everything in the hopes of catching him up to speed.

“Remember, we’re going to Lake Tahoe on the fourteenth next month. Your mother wants you to bring that sweater you got two years ago.”

Nate nodded, indifferent to the news. They took to Lake Tahoe every winter break, though they also had a New Year's family reunion immediately following it. The Quinn clan was a monstrous bunch – his father the middle of six children, and his mother the youngest of four – but Nate could never remember not going to Lake Tahoe and stealing snacks with his older cousins while the younger cousins played with his old wooden trains. “The one with the reindeer with the light-up tails, or the vomiting Christmas trees?”

“Christmas trees.”

He scoffed, smirking. “Ugly sweater galore.”

“Exactly,” his father answered on cue, smirking. “Your mother wants to wear the reindeer one, and I have a stripping gingerbread man one for this year.”

He grinned. “Sounds awful.”

“You should hear some of the ones your aunt found.”

He couldn’t wait.

“And how is Sam? What's he doing for break?”

He didn't know when “friend” had become attached to Sam, but explaining their push-pull dance of a relationship was one Nate was not interested in trying. “He's...fine, I guess. I don't know what he's doing. Maybe spending time with family? More importantly, he tried to beat me in the last debate we had. About the death penalty.”

“Was he for or against?”

“For, but doesn't agree with it.”

Mr. Quinn raised a brow and took a sip of his wine. “How annoying.” He hummed and swished the red wine in his mouth – a disgusting habit his wife lambasted him for – and swallowed.

“How's Tyler? Is he coming this year?” Partially obligatory question.

His father inhaled. “He's good. If I recall correctly, he's studying in...Athens right now for his dissertation. He’s not coming to Lake Tahoe, but will be coming for New Year's.” He checked his watch and retrieved his cutlery. “At this rate, you'll be graduating and we’ll all be crying over it, just like you.”

Nate flushed and glanced away, shoving another piece of deliciously buttery garlic bread into his mouth. Whatever well of emotion in him that bubbled over when Tyler graduated was embarrassing. He wished people would forget it, but he remembered why he was so heartbroken.

Nate's older brother was a person, tangible and large, four years ago, and was very much his North Star until graduating. Tyler Quinn was a Brookfell baseball star, shifting his clubs every half-year until he was dipped his toe in all of them; he still had time to be a doting boyfriend to some girl who broke up with him a year ago. The effort was magnanimous.

When the two overlapped, were at the same school, Nate reveled in his brother being around. His brother was some kind of godly figure, charming and effervescent, in a way Nate strived to be. He could remember the gaggle of people who yearned for words with him, bask in his presence, like it would elevate their social standings at school. It never worked, but so many hoped.

Everywhere, even four year later, his presence lingered, looming in the form of trophies, ribbons, and photographs from the debate club, the science club, the regional spelling bee, the swim team. Nate and Sam's faces might have been all over Brookfell Academy, now, but Tyler Quinn's name was everywhere, too.

But Tyler Quinn never have a Sam, never had someone to outright didn't adore him, or spar with, and for that, Nate pitied him.

Nate hummed, glancing at his dinner. Picking at his dinner until boredom overtook him.

“I know that look,” his father said, smirking. “Go daydream and get dressed.”

He stood. “Sorry.”

Mr. Quinn shook his head and waved him over to his dining chair. “I know that look too well, Nate. You don’t mean it.” He took his son’s hands and patted them. “You are certainly your mother’s son.”

Whether that was a compliment or not was lost on him.

“Go get dressed. We’ll leave when you said.”

He nodded and turned away. He had other things to consider to make sure the night was going to be fun.

~

He'd insisted on arriving at least an hour before the doors officially opened so he could get something done for the soccer team. Nate strolled the halls with nervous confidence while his parents talked to the principal about “Nathaniel's wonderful sportsmanship” and his “remarkable attention to detail” (whatever that meant) in the cafeteria, but that bought him enough time to slip into the administrative office, upload his lovely award for Sam, and print it off on the same card stock as every other stupid award they were giving out that evening. Manila envelope and stickers made it as convincing as possible.

This prank was so simple it was almost criminal.

“Hey, glad you're here,” Nate whispered, trotting over to the underclassman half-hiding behind a row of lockers, looking way too eager and excited for such a small task. “You remember what I said?”

The underclassman nodded, eyes starry and bright.

Nate was already tired of him.

“Swap out the one for Sam's with yours,” he said, jittery and bouncing as he reached for the manila folder.

Nate tsked him and tugged it away. “Calm down, dude. You need to look calm. Because if I could do this, I would, but I can't. The debate head would suspect something's up.”

“I'm sorry, I'm jus – I'm just so excited. It's not every day Nate Quinn asks for your help with someone.” The underclassman grinned, the sight almost painful to look at. “I'll swap out Watson's real one with that one, and when they give it out –”

“I'll be sure to let everyone know you helped me on that. Okay?” Nate flashed his brightest, nicest smile, and offered the folder to the underclassman. “Remember, swap Sam's –”

“Swap Watson's award with yours.” The underclassman glanced down at it before asking, “How, uh...how are you able to tell the difference between yours and theirs?”

Nate raised a finger, humming. In a low corner, haphazardly placed, was a small golden star sticker. “If I can't sign my name to this, I might as well make it known that I had something to do with it,” he chuckled.

The underclassman nodded. “Right. I'll go d – I'll do this now, okay? I won't let you down, Nate!” He jumped in the air and skipped down the empty hallway towards the debate room.

He waved until they were out of sight, and his expression fell with a sigh. The smirk on his face bounded back when he considered the look on Sam's face when he opened the envelope; by then, Nate would be running to the cafeteria on the other side of school, feigning ignorance when confronted.

There was, however, always the chance that Sam could throw something at Nate he hadn't expected. The thought was enticing in its own right.

Nate still hadn't properly gotten Sam back for replacing his deodorant with spray-on tan. He'd been using it for days before anyone said anything. The rubber balls were a taster; this was the main course.

For now, he had to wait. That was the worst of it. He didn't even know if Sam would be coming, but he hoped he did. If he knew Sam – and he thought he did – he would come, dressed like he was trying to get an audience with the president of Oxford University, his stony face unmoving but his fingers twitching anxiously.

He rubbed and rolled his shoulders, listening to the bones crack and feeling his muscles strain, and straightened back up. In the reflection of an award cabinet glass, he tidied up his appearance until it was satisfactorily neat.

His eyes lingered on Tyler's name. Nate huffed and turned with a single skip, starting to hum a light tune as he returned to his parents.